


The Lesson

by whichclothes



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-24
Updated: 2010-04-24
Packaged: 2017-10-09 03:00:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/82313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichclothes/pseuds/whichclothes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> Post-series and ignoring the comics. Giles runs into Spike unexpectedly and learns a lesson. </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/giles), [the lesson](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/the%20lesson)  
  
---|---  
  
_ **The Lesson, part 1 of 4** _

Yes, I know I've begun posting _The Prisons We Make_, and I also know that I'm in the midst of posting _Stasis_ on my [other journal](http://qualru.livejournal.com). But that's not enough--I'm going to take over the entire internets. Mwah-hah-hah!!

 

**Title: **The Lesson  
**Part: **1 of 4   
**Pairing:** Spike/Giles  
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:**  angst, slash  
**Summary:** Post-series and ignoring the comics. Giles runs into Spike unexpectedly and learns a lesson.   
**AN: **In celebration of [Giles Week](http://dontgetanyolder.livejournal.com/194420.html) and also using one of January's [](http://community.livejournal.com/nekid_spike/profile)[**nekid_spike**](http://community.livejournal.com/nekid_spike/)  prompts, prostitution. I'll post all 4 parts now.  


**Part One**

_London, England_

_1982_

 

“It isn’t fair.”

Archie Lassiter looked up from the book he’d been squinting at—Freeman’s _Demon Compendium_, Giles saw, an old favorite of his mentor—and sighed. “What’s not fair, Rupert?”

“Dorothy Alldredge has been assigned to the newest Slayer. I think I’ve acquitted myself completely for my youthful indiscretions, and I’ve been of considerable assistance to you and the Council, and I performed better than Dorothy on everything except Advanced Sumerian. So why was she chosen and not I?”

Archie took off his glasses and gestured with them at the chair in front of his desk. “Sit, my boy.”

Giles didn’t want to sit. He wanted to throw a bloody tantrum, perhaps break a few antique vases, scream things at the top of his lungs. But he didn’t. He sat.

Archie set his glasses atop the open book. “Your work here has been excellent, Rupert. You’re correct—your examination marks have been outstanding. The highest in several decades, I believe. You’ve also become my invaluable assistant. Nobody here doubts your worth, and your former errors of judgment have been quite forgiven. I’m sure your father and Edna would be proud of you.”

Giles crossed his arms. He didn’t much fancy being reminded of his forebears, neither of whom had managed to get in the kind of trouble he had. “If I’m so bloody brilliant, why is Dorothy Alldredge currently packing her bags for a flight to Brazil?” Not that he especially wanted to go to Brazil in any case—he wouldn’t enjoy the heat and humidity at all—but he would be willing to make that sacrifice to become a full-fledged Watcher.

The older man sighed again. “It’s not all about the lessons, you know. There are some among the Council who believe you’re too hot-headed, too disposed to contravene the Council’s rules.”

With an effort, Giles kept his voice even. Getting angry would only prove the point. “Is that what you believe, Archie?”

“Perhaps. But I also believe that slavish devotion to policy isn’t always a good thing, and that a bit of emotion, rightly placed, can be a great benefit. No, my boy, if I didn’t think you had the potential to be a fine Watcher I would have told you so long ago.”

“Then why haven’t I—“

“Rupert, why do you want to become a Watcher?”

The question took him so much by surprise that he could only gape for a moment. It had always been assumed without question that that was his destiny, so much so that when he’d fought against it himself, his family had been appalled and embarrassed. “It’s what I was born to do,” he said at last.

“A calling. Yes. And what is a Watcher’s mission?”

Was this some sort of test? “To protect the Slayer, of course.”

“Yes, yes.” Archie waved his hand. “But that is a task at which, unfortunately, every Watcher must eventually fail. And yet we continue the effort. Why?”

The answer to this came quickly. “To save the world.”

Archie smiled slightly. “Yes. An admirable goal, to be sure. And what happens if there are…casualties along the way?”

“That’s inevitable. The price we must pay.” Giles had seen that film recently—_The good of the many outweighs the good of the few_. “I’m prepared for that, Archie. Even if it means forfeiting my own life to obtain a victory, I’m willing.”

“I know you are, son.” He picked up his glasses, peered at the lenses for a moment, and then put them down again. “But I believe you still have some things to learn. For example, it’s not always about saving the world. Sometimes it’s about saving just one individual, and that struggle is just as important.”

Giles knew better than to argue, but he also knew Archie was mistaken. How could one person be as important as the entire world? The proposition was ridiculous.

Archie lifted his glasses again and put them on his face. “Well, it may come to you in time, I expect. In the meantime, I’ve arranged through an acquaintance for an excellent position for you. How does assistant curator at the British Museum sound to you?”

“Like an attempt to distract me.”

“Nonsense, my boy! Have you any idea of the resources available at the Museum? It will be an excellent opportunity for you to augment your familiarity with antiquities. Why, just the Byzantine collections alone….”

Giles stopped listening. It didn’t matter what he thought anyhow. The Council would ship him off and he’d spend his days cataloging dusty trinkets, and he’d do so obediently because he didn’t have it in him to fight them anymore. One day, though, he thought, one day he’d finally be assigned to a Slayer. And then he’d show them all how capable he really was. Someday he’d save the world.

[Part Two](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/110247.html) 


	2.  The Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Post-series and ignoring the comics. Giles runs into Spike unexpectedly and learns a lesson. 

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/giles), [the lesson](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/the%20lesson)  
  
---|---  
  
_**The Lesson, part 2 of 4**_  
**Title: **The Lesson   
**Part: 2** of 4    
**Pairing:** Spike/Giles   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:**  angst, slash   
**Summary:** Post-series and ignoring the comics. Giles runs into Spike unexpectedly and learns a lesson.    
**AN: **In celebration of [Giles Week](http://dontgetanyolder.livejournal.com/194420.html) and also using one of January's [](http://community.livejournal.com/nekid_spike/profile)[**nekid_spike**](http://community.livejournal.com/nekid_spike/)  prompts, prostitution. I'll post all 4 parts now.

**Part Two**

_London, England_

_2010_

 

Giles walked slowly down the street. The sun would be setting soon, he supposed, but it was too gray to tell exactly when. Besides, the tall buildings cast perpetual gloom on the streets beneath them, so that sometimes he forgot what sunlight felt like. It had been less than a decade since he’d left California; he would have expected that his body would still retain a bit of the memory of endless warmth, but all of that seemed to evaporate the moment he moved back to London, as if it had been some sort of dream.

He didn’t look around him as he walked. He didn’t need to. He’d lived in this neighborhood before, back when he was misspending his youth, before he’d given in to the Council and then the deadly tug of middle age. The neighborhood hadn’t changed much in all these years. Or perhaps it had, and it had now come full circle back to where it was thirty-some years ago. It was still a bit dodgy, but in a colorful sort of way, with a few friendly pubs and record shops nearby—real, vinyl-bearing record shops, where he could browse for hours. There were coffee houses to sit in when it was two in the morning and he couldn’t sleep. His favorite coffee house had open mic nights once a week, and once in a while he’d bring his guitar and sing a song or two. Once in an even greater while he’d find someone, or someone would find him, and they’d spend a few sweaty hours in one flat or the other, rarely bothering with the charade of exchanging phone numbers.

Tonight he was just going home.

“Fancy some company, love?”

He generally ignored the come-ons from the prostitutes. Once in a while, if he’d heard of demonic activity in the area, he’d give them a warning. They usually laughed him off, but it made him feel a bit better to know he’d at least made the effort. Lately, though, things had been quiet, and he would have just walked on, but something about this particular rent-boy’s voice struck a familiar chord. He stopped and, wrapping his palm around the stake in his coat pocket, took a step into the alley.

The light here was very dim, and he could see very little of the man who’d propositioned him. But he could certainly hear the shocked intake of breath, and then the forceful, “Bloody _hell_! What are _you_ doing here, Watcher?”

He had been right. He did recognize that voice.

“Spike!” he hissed. “Good Lord! What are you up to?” Was the vampire back to his old ways, haunting the darkness for his meals? Had he shed his soul? Had something else taken hold of him, like the First Evil had back in Sunnydale? Giles tightened his grip on the wood.

But Spike just sighed, and in a voice that sounded ancient and weary, he said, “Sod off, Rupert.”

Giles grew angry. He’d left Spike behind long ago—for good, he’d thought—and although he’d heard that Spike was resurrected, and that he’d joined forces with Angel in LA for some time, Giles hadn’t expected him here and didn’t want the vampire hanging about his neighborhood. Giles reached out, grabbed what he thought was probably Spike’s elbow, and dragged him out onto the sidewalk, where a streetlight shone brightly. He didn’t like the idea that Spike could see him better than he could see Spike.

But when he did get a better look at the vampire, he couldn’t help but gasp. Spike looked terrible. His hair was unbleached and ungelled, an untidy mop of curls. He was thinner than usual and, somehow, paler, with dark shadows under sunken eyes. Despite the chill air he wore only a torn t-shirt of questionable cleanliness and ripped, too-large jeans. He was barefoot, long toes shockingly filthy on the wet pavement. He looked like a junkie, only without the jitters.

“What happened to your boots?” Perhaps not the best question, but it was the one that escaped first.

Spike just worked his jaw and then looked away.

Giles tried again. “What do you want?”

Spike gave him such a ferocious glare then that Giles nearly took the stake out of his pocket. “I want twenty quid so I can buy some dinner and something to wash it down with. If you’re not going to fuck me, then bugger off so I can find someone who will.”

It wasn’t the anger that stunned Gils into silence, but the words themselves. He only stood there, staring, until Spike growled and spun around and started to stomp away, back into the alley.

“Wait!” Giles called.

Spike stopped without turning around, and Giles closed the distance between them. Even here, he could see the way every muscle in the vampire’s body was drawn tight, the way his shoulders moved as he breathed a bit too quickly—and why did he breathe at all? Giles let go of the stake and fished out his wallet. He hadn’t much inside, only about thirty pounds, but he pulled out the bills and held them out toward Spike. “Here,” he said.

Spike turned his head enough to see the money. “So you do want to fuck me. Always knew you had an itch for it, Watcher. What do you want? Nice blow-job? Or do you fancy bending me over that bin over there?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Just take it, Spike.” For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Spike snatched the money from Giles’s hand and without saying thank you, without so much as a look back, ran off. He soon disappeared in the blackness of the alley.

The first thing Giles did when he arrived at his quiet little flat was head for the kitchen, where he poured himself a healthy tumblerful of scotch. The second thing he did was empty the glass, all in one long draught, and the third thing he did was refill it. Only then did he wander back into the living room, where he put down the drink just long enough to take off his jacket and toe off his shoes, and then he collapsed onto the sofa. He really should eat something. He probably had something edible somewhere. Some eggs, perhaps, or bread and jam. Perhaps a shriveled apple or two. But it seemed like such effort to get up, and instead he sat and sipped at his liquor, his mind as blank as the television screen in front of him.

 

***

 

For several weeks, Giles did not think about Spike or Sunnydale. He didn’t think about Buffy, lost to him now as all Slayers were eventually lost to their Watchers, or the others, the children he’d almost thought of as his, before they grew up and went their own ways and didn’t need him anymore. He heard from them now and then. Willow sent him emails. Dawn did as well, and she’d try to talk him into joining Facebook and friending her. Even Xander sent him an occasional letter with pictures of his wife, who was three-quarters human, and their son, a sturdy little boy with his father’s smile.

He spent his time as he had for some years now. Three days a week he took the Underground to the British Museum, where some of his old colleagues still worked, and he helped with translating ancient languages and developing displays about East Asian fertility symbols or Polynesian weapons. Tuesdays and Thursdays he instead made his way to the Council headquarters, where he’d listen in on the latest news—sometimes hardly more than gossip—and provide whatever expertise he could to avert the latest calamity. He’d been offered the charge of Slayers, of course. There were plenty to go around, nowadays. But he always refused. He’d lost enough already; he couldn’t survive another hole in his heart.

As the day drew to a close, Giles would sometimes stop somewhere and have something to eat. Curry, perhaps, or Chinese. Maybe just a sandwich. Often nothing at all. Then he’d go home and watch television or read. On weekends he went to the record shops or bookshops, or just sat at a coffee house, sipping away and staring out the windows at the passersby.

The weather grew a little warmer and drier. He packed away his scarf and gloves and heavy coat, and now wore a light jacket instead. The days grew longer, so it was still light as he made his way home and he’d linger a while longer over his dinner, or take the long way as he walked. People smiled more and began to talk about summer holidays.

It was early April when he saw Spike again. It was very late on a Saturday night—Sunday morning, really—and Giles had been down at the pub, where the bloke at the next table had been to some of the same concerts as Giles, a thousand years ago, and they’d argued over the merits of the Sex Pistols versus the Clash. So despite the drizzle Giles was feeling almost happy as he walked home, tottering just slightly. Until he saw Spike leaning against a wall.

Spike looked as bad as he had before. The same clothes, only now even more tattered. Still no shoes. His hair was longer and he was posed in an odd mixture of seduction and dejection. He was soaking wet, small waterfalls running down his hair and onto the pavement. He barely looked up when Giles stopped in front of him. “Come to collect on your twenty quid, Watcher?”

“It was thirty.”

A ghost of a grin flashed across Spike’s face and then was gone. They stood there a long time, silent, getting wetter. Finally, Giles said, “Do you have a place to sleep in the morning?”

Spike shrugged and pointed at a manhole cover.

Because he still wasn’t sober, Giles said, “Come along, then.” Wordlessly, Spike did, trailing along more like a lost puppy than a strutting demon.

Inside the flat, Spike stood stranded and dripping on the rug near the door, seemingly not wanting to get the wood floor wet. “Wait here,” Giles ordered. He went into the bathroom and found a towel, and then went back into the living room and tossed the towel to Spike. “My dressing gown’s hanging in back of the bathroom door if you want to get out of those wet clothes.”

Spike didn’t even bother to leer. He toweled at his hair and then wrapped the cloth around his shoulders. “You reckon I could have a hot shower while I’m in there? Haven’t had one in ages.”

“That’s fine. Or a bath if you’d rather.”

Again that ghost of a smile. “As long as you don’t chain me in there this time.”

“I’m afraid I’m fresh out of chains, so help yourself.”

While Spike bathed, Giles put the kettle on and went into the bedroom to change into dry trousers and his favorite baggy green jumper. He was sitting in his armchair and reading the previous morning’s paper when Spike emerged, tousled and looking almost childlike in Giles’s dressing gown, but considerably cleaner, at least. “Hung my clothes up in the shower,” he said. “I expect they’ll dry soon enough.”

“That’s fine. Do you want some tea? The pot’s in the kitchen, cups are on the counter.”

Spike nodded slightly. “Cheers.” He disappeared in to the kitchen and came back a moment later with an orange mug cupped between his hands, as if he were trying to warm himself from its heat. He sat on the sofa and sipped at it. “Don’t reckon you have any blood in the fridge as well?”

“It’s not on my usual grocery list. Would human food help? I have some biscuits, I think, and some cheese, and—“

“No. Wrong kind of hunger, mate. Could eat a whole supermarket and still need to feed.”

“I see.”

“’S all right. ‘M used to it.”

“Spike, what are you doing here? And…like this?” In this condition, he meant.

Spike stared at his Darjeeling. “’S not like I can get a proper job, is it? Had enough of demons to last several lifetimes, sodding soul won’t let me eat the locals….”

“So you’ve been selling yourself.”

“I give blokes what they’ve paid for,” Spike said defensively. “It’s the most honest job I’ve ever had. Only…only they tend to notice the lack of heartbeat and body temperature unless they’re rat-arsed. Means I have to be selective.”

“You solicited me, last time. I wasn’t drunk.”

Spike looked back at his cup. “I was desperate. I get so hungry….”

“But why are you _here_, Spike? Why London?”

“Was born here, wasn’t I? Not so far from here, what they call Fitzrovia now.”

“And?”

Spike sighed and put the tea down on the table beside him. “I was looking for home, I expect,” he said, his voice almost a whisper.

“Did you find it?”

“No. Should’ve listened to Thomas Wolfe.” He frowned. “Didn’t really think I would find it, actually. It was just, I had nowhere else to look.”

“What about Angel? You were working with him.”

“I was working _for_ him, you mean. There was that bit with the lawyers—“

“I heard about that,” Giles interrupted. “You managed to destroy Wolfram &amp; Hart.”

“Without the Council’s help,” Spike said sourly.

It wasn’t the first time Giles had felt a twinge of guilt over it. “We didn’t trust him. It wasn’t clear at all what—“

“Yeah, I know, I know. He wasn’t certain of it himself, sometimes, I think. But we beat them. Turns out most of the local demons weren’t any happier about those wankers than we were, and they fought on our side. Then Peaches was off to find his next chance at being Champion.”

“But not you?”

“Had enough trouble getting on with the pillock when we were both evil. The soul only made him into a self-righteous, broody twat. Couldn’t stay there.”

“So what did you do?”

Very quietly, Spike said, “Went looking for the Slayer.”

Giles’s stomach tightened. “Oh.”

Spike looked up at him and cocked his head. “Did she ever know about me? That I didn’t stay dead after Sunnyhell?”

“No. I thought it was best that she didn’t.”

“Good.”

Giles raised his eyebrows.

“Like to think she remembered me going out in a blaze of glory, a hero. Not…not like this.” He waved his hands vaguely at himself.

“She did. She spoke of you sometimes, you know. Fondly.” It was quite a bit for Giles to admit, but it was the truth.

Spike’s eyes went shiny and he looked away again. After a few moments, he licked his lips. “Did she…at the end, I mean… was it—“

“It was very fast. “ It was. One second she was alive, fighting as beautifully as always, and the next she was dead, her neck neatly broken. Faith had killed the monster responsible, no doubt saving thousands, so the Council had considered it a victory. Giles suddenly felt completely sober. “She didn’t suffer.”

“Good,” Spike said again.

Giles put the newspaper down and stood. “It’s quite late. You can sleep on the sofa, if you like.”

“Ta.”

Giles fetched blankets and a pillow and handed them to Spike. “Is it all right if I watch the telly?” Spike asked. “Bit early for a kip for me.”

It was strange that Spike was actually asking permission, Giles thought. He wouldn’t have, once. “That’s fine. Just keep the volume down.”

He had a hard time getting to sleep. Not because of the television, which he couldn’t hear at all, but just because of the knowledge that Spike was just there, in the next room, sitting on his furniture, perhaps rooting through the cupboards looking for Giles’s scotch. Of course he’d shared a flat before with the vampire, but Spike was chipped then, and Giles hadn’t exactly invited him to stay.

Giles kept replaying their conversation about Buffy, and how Spike had so badly wanted her to view him as a hero. How Spike had been so worried about whether her death had been a difficult one. Giles had long since stopped doubting that Spike was truly capable of love, or that Spike was truly in love with Buffy. He’d always assumed, though, that it was a selfish sort of love, the type built mainly on lust and need. Tonight Giles realized that Spike’s emotions had been more complicated than that, and that the vampire had really cared about Buffy. It was a startling revelation, and one that kept Giles wide awake for a long time.

 

***

 

Giles slept until nearly noon. When he stumbled out of the bedroom toward the loo, he saw Spike still sound asleep on the sofa. Spike was wrapped tightly in the blankets like one of the mummies at the museum, only his head sticking out. Something about his posture suggested self-protection, and Giles wondered where he’d been finding places to sleep for the past several years. He also looked absurdly young, although the skin was still stretched too tightly over his face.

Yawning, Giles made his way to the shower. He was feeling slightly less like a Fyarl by the time he got out, and Spike blinked blearily at him.

“I’ve errands to run,” Giles said. “I won’t return until late.”

Spike looked at him for a moment. “You don’t trust me alone in your flat, Rupert? Not like you have anything worth nicking anyhow.”

Giles sighed irritably, partly because Spike was right, and partly because he knew perfectly well that the vampire couldn’t leave this time of day. He tossed a small bundle onto Spike’s lap. “What’s this, then?” Spike asked.

“One of my t-shirts and a jacket. A pair of shoes. None of it your style and all too large, but an improvement over what you have.”

He’d thought Spike might be offended at the cast-offs, but the vampire only looked surprised. “You’re getting charitable in your dotage, Watcher?”

Giles rolled his eyes, shrugged on his remaining jacket, and left.

He had an appointment that afternoon with a shop owner in Bloomsbury, a man who dealt in small items of the occult, and often rang Giles when something he thought might be more important or valuable came into his hands. This time, he said he’d obtained a charm at a jumble sale, and he believed it might be meant to summon some sort of demon. Giles remembered Sweet and shuddered. He was a bit early, so he stopped first for something to eat, just some tea and noodle soup. On the way to his meeting he stopped and browsed in a used bookshop, where he purchased an old volume on Alexander the Great.

As it turned out, the charm was, indeed, meant to summon a particularly nasty demon, Ctharlom the Soul-Eater. Using his Council checkbook, Giles paid the shop owner a tidy sum for the trinket. He decided the charm was too dangerous to simply have hanging about, so he detoured by Council Headquarters on his way home and placed it in the warded safe where they kept things waiting to be cataloged and safely stored. By then it was dark out and he was hungry again, so he stopped at the grocers and bought a salad to eat at home. He had to walk right by the butcher’s counter on his way to pay. Calling himself ten kinds of a fool, he persuaded the butcher to part with a liter of pig’s blood.

The flat was empty when he got home. The blankets had been folded neatly and placed on the sofa. In the kitchen, he found his best scotch on the counter, next to a glass. To his surprise, though, the level of the liquor was only slightly depleted. There was a torn black t-shirt in the rubbish bin, and, he discovered a little later, his dressing gown was hung neatly in its usual spot on the back of the door.

 

***

 

For weeks, he peered down alleys and darkened streets, half-expecting to find Spike slouching there. The vampire never materialized, though, and Giles was slightly shocked to discover that he was almost disappointed about it.

But he was busy. He helped the Council avert yet another apocalypse, this one involving scheming fairies from Bratislava. The Museum obtained a rather interesting new acquisition, an assortment of medieval Scandinavian prints that might have depicted a slaughter by a clan of Nosniuq demons. Xander sent some photos of the house he and his wife were building, along with the news that they were expecting their second child in a few months. Dawn broke up with her boyfriend, sent Giles long, teary emails, and then met a new one. When the weather grew warm, Giles went on holiday, doing some hiking along the Cornwall Coast. Willow came for a brief visit in September on her way to a meeting with a coven in Paris. In November, Giles spent a few days in hospital with an attack of gallstones. The Council and the Museum sent him flowers.

In December, he went on holiday again, this time to the Canary Islands. He met a woman at his hotel, a pretty Economics professor from Belgium, and they went dancing and took long walks and ate dinner together and made love, and at the end of the week she returned to Antwerp.

Giles still thought of Spike now and then, mostly when he was rooting around in the freezer and came across the foam containers from the butcher’s. He wondered if the vampire was still in London, if he wasn’t finally just a pile of dust somewhere. On New Year’s Eve, he threw out the blood.

[Part Three](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/110520.html) 


	3.  The Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Post-series and ignoring the comics. Giles runs into Spike unexpectedly and learns a lesson. 

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/giles), [the lesson](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/the%20lesson)  
  
---|---  
  
_ **The Lesson, part 3 of 4** _

**Title: **The Lesson   
**Part: 3** of 4    
**Pairing:** Spike/Giles   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:**  angst, slash   
**Summary:** Post-series and ignoring the comics. Giles runs into Spike unexpectedly and learns a lesson.    
**AN: **In celebration of [Giles Week](http://dontgetanyolder.livejournal.com/194420.html) and also using one of January's [](http://community.livejournal.com/nekid_spike/profile)[**nekid_spike**](http://community.livejournal.com/nekid_spike/)  prompts, prostitution. I'll post all 4 parts now.

**Part Three**

_London, England_

_2012_

 

He should have known better. For one thing, Terry was much too young for him. Giles should have put the brakes on the moment the boy insisted that Giles buy a mobile phone and communicate with him by texting. He had appalling taste in music as well. He was naïve, dogmatic. He saw the world in black and white. He was constantly getting in a high dudgeon about some perceived injustice or another, or galloping off on some new crusade, but then he’d get tired of it before he accomplished anything and he’d quickly pick up a new cause instead. But he was really bloody gorgeous, with a young man’s stamina in bed.

It was the longest relationship Giles had had in a very long time, and of course it had ended badly. Terry had moved out—and how had Giles been persuaded to allow him to move in the first place?—and got himself sacked from the Museum and now, as far as Giles knew, was once again living with his parents in Durham.

Giles drained his glass and paid his tab. He shrugged into his coat and wrapped the gray scarf around his neck and wandered outside, where the air was crisp and very cold but dry. They were forecasting snow the next day.

It was quite late, but he still passed a few people on his way home. The door to a coffee house opened as he walked by, warm air and the scent of coffee wafting out, and he was tempted to go in. But he was suddenly very tired, so instead he trudged home, pausing now and then to wipe his nose with his handkerchief.

His flat felt blessedly warm. He took off his outer clothing right away and left his muddy boots near the door. A bath would be lovely, he thought. Especially with a bottle of Macallan at his side.

He walked around the sofa toward the kitchen, and then stopped and screamed like a girl.

His first thought was that Terry had returned and committed suicide in some sort of grand gesture. But then he immediately realized that the body huddled on the floor was much slighter than Terry’s and paler. “Bloody _hell_!” he said, and knelt beside Spike’s crumpled form.

Spike’s thin clothing was in shreds, and so was the flesh underneath. A sticky puddle of blood had congealed on the wood floor beneath him. He was no longer just addict-thin; now he looked like a famine victim, or the photos Giles had seen of survivors of Andersonville Prison. Even without the ghastly wounds, a human in this condition would be very close to death. “Spike?” Giles said. There was no response.

Sadly bidding farewell to the imagined bath, Giles lifted the vampire into his arms. Even though Spike was very light, Giles’s back immediately complained, and his knees weren’t particularly happy either. He carried Spike into the bedroom and plopped him onto the bed, then proceeded to try and get him sorted.

Giles had done a lot of patching up over the years. He’d even patched up Spike once or twice. This was one of the worst cases he could recall, but he felt competent as he stripped off Spike’s remaining clothing, patted his body with damp towels to clean off the dried blood and determine the extent of the wounds, and then stitched and bandaged the worst of them. Spike didn’t so much as twitch, and Giles knew he wasn’t going to heal unless he got some blood in him.

When Spike was more or less put back together, Giles wearily put his coat and scarf back on. The Sainsbury’s nearby was open 24 hours, fortunately. The butcher’s counter, however, was closed this late, and Giles stood there, contemplating whether it would be enough for now to buy a lot of meat and feed the juices to Spike. An employee came by, though, a man of about Giles’s age, and asked if he could help him.

“Yes, erm, I need quite a bit of blood. Cow or pig, either will do, but I’d like at least two liters.”

The man stared at him. “Why do you need two liters of blood in the middle of the night?”

_For an injured vampire, twit_, Giles thought irritably. What he said, though, was, “I’m a curator at the British Museum, and I’ve been preparing a display on Babylonian ritual sacrifices. I’ve had a sudden brainstorm on how a certain item might have been utilized, and I require blood to try it out. Water doesn’t have the right consistency, you see.” It wasn’t a bad story, considering how little time he’d had to concoct it.

The man stared at him as if he were completely barmy, but then he shrugged. “Be right back.”

He was back about five minutes later with plastic bags stuffed with foam containers. “Almost three liters here. Both pig and cow.”

“Thank you,” Giles said, taking the bags. “How much do I owe you?”

“Oh, it’s on the house. In the interest of science and all.”

“You’re very kind.”

Spike didn’t appear to have moved at all when Giles returned home. He looked exactly like a corpse, and Giles had a sudden and mostly irrational fear that the police would burst in and discover a mangled carcass in his bed. The Council would have a hard time explaining that one. But the door remained closed and nobody was waving guns at him, so Giles went into the kitchen and warmed some blood in the microwave.

Giles had killed vampires before. He had also employed them, on occasion, and housed them, and fought at their side. He had never actually fed one before. He had to use a funnel to avoid dripping all over the linens, but he was pleased that at least Spike swallowed well. It must be a reflex with vampires, he thought. He’d have to make a note in his diary about it.

He wasn’t certain exactly how much to give Spike, but after a liter Spike’s belly was noticeably protuberant, so he stopped. He made sure the curtains were fully drawn. Feeling oddly paternal, he tucked the covers around the vampire, then grabbed one of the pillows from the bed. After fetching the spare blankets, he stretched out on the sofa. The mess on the floor could wait until morning.

 

***

 

Sleeping on the sofa was a mistake. Between the overly-soft cushions and the vampire hauling he’d done the night before, Giles woke up with his back so sore he could barely walk. He hobbled his way to the bathroom, making a face at the puddle of dried gore as he passed it, and dry-swallowed a half-dozen ibuprofen. He used the toilet and then washed up. He was still in his clothing from yesterday, and it was somewhat worse for the wear, so, with a slight feeling of trepidation, he went into his bedroom.

Spike was exactly as Giles had left him. The bruising around his face looked a bit less severe, however, and the face itself looked less skull-like. Not sure whether Spike was unconscious or just sleeping, Giles quietly pulled some fresh clothing out of his chest of drawers. Then he went to mop and have some breakfast.

It was a long day. Mostly he tried to read, but he couldn’t seem to concentrate. Periodically he checked in on Spike and funneled more blood into Spike’s throat. He knew that vampire healing time was varied, depending on things such as the severity of the wounds, the vampire’s general condition, and the type of blood. Human was best, of course. Back in the early 90s, Marlys Finnegan had devised a series of equations to predict demon recuperation rates. The Council had not been pleased; they were interested in killing demons, not curing them.

When it grew late, Giles eyed the sofa balefully. No, he wasn’t going to do that again. He’d probably be unable to stand at all in the morning, and he had nobody to come nurse him to health. He put on pajama trousers and carefully climbed into bed. Another first for him today, then: Sleeping with a vampire.

 

***

 

Spike awoke when Giles did. Or perhaps earlier; it was possible he’d been lying there, staring at Giles for some time. “Rupert,” he croaked.

Giles sat up and ran a hand through his hair. “Are you hungry?”

Spike looked slightly confused at the question. “Yeah.”

“I’ll be right back.” Giles stood and stretched. It was chilly in the flat, so he slipped on his green jumper. He put the kettle on and heated some blood, and returned to the bedroom a few minutes later with one mug of blood and one of Earl Grey.

Spike was sitting on the edge of the bed trying without much success to dress himself in the remains of his clothing. His entire body was shaking with the effort. “For God’s sake, what are you doing?” Giles asked, placing Spike’s mug on the nightstand beside him.

“Getting my kit on. Don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“Don’t be stupid. There’s nothing left of those clothes, and you’re hardly fit to go out now. Besides, it’s ten in the morning.”

Spike let the rags drop and picked up the mug instead. “Fine. Then give me something to wear and I’ll be gone at sundown.”

Giles sat in the room’s lone chair and stared at Spike for a moment before sipping at his tea. “Why did you come here, Spike?”

Spike didn’t look at him. “Had nowhere else to go, did I?”

“What happened?”

He shrugged. “A bit of a fight.”

“You’re in no shape to be fighting anything.”

“Wasn’t exactly my choice.”

Giles sighed and rubbed his eyes with his free hand. “Why are you in London, Spike?”

“Left for a time. Saw a bit of the continent. Even Prague. Hadn’t been there since Dru…. But it didn’t work. Places had all the wrong memories. I didn’t fit in. Nobody was…. Just didn’t work.”

Spike hadn’t met Giles’s eyes this whole time. The vampire looked exhausted, and not only from his recent injuries. It occurred to Giles that Spike had never been alone, not for any great length of time. Vampires were social creatures as much as humans were, and Spike in particular had always seemed to need others around him, even if those others were demon-fighting humans. But where was he to go now? He wouldn’t be acceptable to other vampires with his soul, and few humans would trust him. Giles certainly hadn’t.

“Stay here, Spike. Until you’re mended, in any case. I don’t want to have to go through this again.”

Spike looked up from his blood. “Why?”

“I don’t seem to be able to rid myself of you. I might as well know where you are. Save myself from unexpected encounters in dark alleys or mauled bodies on my floor.”

The corner of Spike’s mouth twitched. “Old ticker can’t take it?”

So Spike stayed. It worked out better than Giles had expected. Spike slept during the day while Giles was at work, and when Giles went to bed, Spike went out. He’d come back just before dawn and slide into bed beside Giles, smelling of smoke and cheap whiskey and rain. Giles would wake, get up to use the loo, and then stumble back into bed. At some point, much to his own surprise, he stopped being annoyed by Spike’s arrival and began to be relieved.

Giles didn’t know what Spike was doing when he was out. Perhaps he was still renting himself out. He still didn’t seem to have any money, though, so it was Giles who paid for his blood. There was a butcher’s shop a mile or so away whose staff was disinclined to ask questions, so long as Giles handed over cash. Giles didn’t especially mind; he had plenty of money saved up, actually, and little call to spend it. Giles bought Spike some clothes as well, because Spike looked so ridiculous in Giles’s.

There were a few hours every evening when they were both awake and usually both at home. The first week or so they said little to each other, but then they began to watch football matches together. That lead to talking, and Giles discovered that Spike was actually intelligent and well-educated. That shouldn’t have surprised him—he’d known Spike had attended Cambridge when he was human—but Spike had so rarely let that part of himself show that it had been easy to forget.

One evening, they were drinking Newcastle Brown and arguing good-naturedly over Benjamin Disraeli’s support for the Ottoman Empire, and it occurred to Giles as he laughed that he was _happy_, much happier than he’d been in some time, in fact. Spike seemed content as well, and it was as if the hard, sharp edges of his personality had been smoothed a little. He was still caustic at times, he still tended towards braggadocio, but somehow Giles was finding that charming rather than irritating. It was very odd.

Spike didn’t go out that night, instead choosing to remain sprawled on the sofa, reading in front of the television. He’d been doing that more often in recent weeks. Giles had even begun bringing home books he thought Spike might enjoy, pretending he’d bought them for himself. So when the news was over—and really, why did Giles bother watching that nonsense anyway?—he grunted a good night to Spike, who muttered something in reply.

As always, Giles woke when Spike came to bed, and as always, Giles got up to piss, silently cursing his advancing age. Spike seemed to be asleep when he returned to bed, so he climbed in carefully. Just before he shut his eyes, though, he glanced at the vampire, and saw the way the dim light of the alarm clock lit up those sharp cheekbones. Somehow unable to stop himself, Giles reached up and traced his fingertips along one of them.

Spike didn’t startle or yell. He opened his eyes and then turned his head slightly, drawing those two fingers between his lips. He sucked on them slowly, gently, running his tongue up their lengths and over the sensitive pads. Maybe this was a dream, Giles thought. But then he felt a cool hand on his thigh, and a moment later it was rubbing the pajama fabric at his groin. Spike moved his head a bit to dislodge the fingers. “Are you hard for me, Watcher?” he asked, his voice low and husky.

“I suppose I am,” was Giles’s whispered reply.

Spike made a noise somewhere between a growl and a purr, an incredibly sexy noise that made Giles’s cock twitch with interest. Spike rubbed a little harder and then rolled over until his face was inches from Giles’s. Giles could have drowned in those blue eyes. Spike moved his hand to Giles’s and pulled the fingers into his mouth again, and the cool, soft moisture there, combined with the sight of his own fingers moving slowly in and out between those lips, was the most arousing thing Giles had encountered in years.

Deep in his head, a voice that sounded like his father’s was reminding him that this was a vampire. Giles silently told the voice to sod off. But he couldn’t silence the other voice, the one of his conscience. “You don’t have to do this,” he said to Spike.

Spike stopped sucking and looked solemnly at him. “It’s not the price of my room and board?”

“It’s not. You’re free to stay here regardless. I don’t want you to whore yourself to me.”

He could hear Spike swallow. “I wasn’t…. I haven’t been, you know. Whoring myself, I mean. Not since I’ve been staying here.”

“Good,” Giles said, and meant it, because suddenly and without reason, he was feeling very possessive.

Spike moved Giles’s hand under the blankets to his own crotch. He was naked, of course; he always slept in the nude. And he was as hard as Giles was. Giles tentatively explored the length of him, smooth silky skin over a rigid core; and his balls, which were soft and vulnerable-feeling; and the wiry hairs that twined around his fingertips. “Are you hard for me, Spike?” he said very quietly.

The reply was barely audible. “Yes. Please, yes.”

It was the “please” that did it, so unexpected and poignant. He moved his hand around until it was on Spike’s arse instead—the swell of hard muscles firm beneath his palm—and pressed their bodies closer together, close enough that they were hip to hip. Spike moaned and undulated just a bit, resting his hand in the middle of Giles’s back before they kissed. Spike was a good kisser. A very good one, in fact. He parted his lips and allowed Giles’s tongue to enter, and he tasted, surprisingly, of minty toothpaste.

Giles’s left arm had been trapped beneath his own body, but now he moved it between them so he could twist and pinch a bit at the sensitive nubs of Spike’s nipples. Spike continued to move his body, arching into the caresses in front and behind him, whimpering very softly deep in his throat. Giles hadn’t known Spike would be so responsive, and it was a heady feeling, knowing he could make the powerful body beside him thrum with a flick of his thumb or a squeeze of his hand.

Giles had, of course, read the Council’s extensive library holdings on vampires. Not just the bloody bits, but the other parts as well, the ones that were more salacious. So when he pulled his mouth away and moved it to Spike’s neck, and then nibbled not quite gently on that tender skin, he wasn’t shocked when Spike gasped and shuddered against him, nor when Spike cried out brokenly and tepid liquid soaked the front of Giles’s pajama trousers.

“Good boy,” he whispered into Spike’s ear as Spike still trembled. “Good boy.” And he stroked Spike’s rump, lightly and soothingly.

After a few minutes, Spike blinked at him, his eyes slightly dazed. “Bloody hell. Nobody’s done that to me since—“

“Watcher, remember?” He couldn’t help but feel slightly smug.

Spike grinned. “Never realized your education was so complete.”

“Oh, I’ve learnt a great many things. Fetch me the slick from that drawer over there and I’ll show you some.”

While Spike did, Giles opened the curtain so he’d have a little more light. The streetlight painted Spike’s pale skin like watercolors. Giles also stepped out of his pajamas a bit self-consciously. He’d kept himself fit, but age still takes its toll, and his physique was no comparison to Spike’s perpetually young, hard-muscled body. Spike, though, didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he looked Giles up and down and licked at his bottom lip as if he’d seen something very tasty. For the first time in his life, Giles was actually pleased to have a vampire regard him that way.

Spike climbed back onto the bed and crawled across it on all fours. He left the little bottle on Giles’s pillow, then turned around, waving his bottom enticingly. He was looking over his shoulder as well, leering saucily. Well, Giles knew just what to do about that.

He knelt behind Spike and spent a moment admiring the pretty flesh in front of him. Pretty, but it could do with a bit of improvement, he decided. He slapped one cheek rather hard. Spike’s smile grew wider and his wiggling more enthusiastic. “Brilliant,” he said when Giles smacked the other cheek as well. Giles couldn’t have agreed more. So he spent several minutes turning white skin red, while Spike’s encouragement devolved into groaning into the pillow. Giles stopped only because his hand was getting sore. He was going to need to purchase a paddle, he thought. Or perhaps a nice leather flogger, or a cane. Perhaps all three.

He warmed the lubricant between his palms before he inserted a finger into Spike’s small, tight entrance. Spike may have appreciated the gesture. In any case, he sighed loudly and pushed back, impaling himself as far as possible. When Giles crooked his finger to brush against Spike’s prostate, Spike moaned something that Giles took to mean, “More!” and he added a second finger, gently stretching muscles until they felt loose and welcoming. Spike whined when he took his fingers away.

Giles sat back on the bed and propped the pillows between his back and the headboard. “Come here,” he ordered, and Spike swiftly turned around until he was straddling Giles’s outstretched legs. Spike licked his lips again—that delectable, plump lower lip that Giles wanted to nibble on, but later—and bent his head, and enveloped Giles’s cock with his mouth.

Giles ran his fingers through Spike’s hair. He’d gone back to bleaching it, but lately he’d been cutting it short and leaving it ungelled, so that it grew in soft little curls that felt lovely, like strands of raw silk. Giles tugged at them while Spike opened his throat and swallowed him down. Spike’s back was bowed over Giles’s legs, each vertebra standing out in sharp relief, as perfect as a marble statue.

“Up,” Giles said after a few minutes, pulling lightly at Spike’s hair. He was regretful about it, but he had other plans, and his stamina had its limits.

Spike released him with a loud slurp. “You taste good,” he said. He rose to his knees and scooted forward so that the damp, red head of his cock nestled against Giles’s torso. With a little assistance from Giles, he sank down on his haunches, slowly impaling himself on Giles’s cock.

“Good Lord,” Giles groaned, clutching at Spike’s arse. Spike was so smooth and tight around him. It had been a very long time since he’d fucked without a condom. Spike let his head fall back. He caught his lip between his teeth as he began to move up and down. Giles himself could move very little in this position, but that was all right, and he could at least bend his neck down to lick and gnaw at Spike’s dark pink nipples.

“Harder!” Spike demanded. Giles complied, until he tasted the metallic saltiness of Spike’s blood, and again Spike came, this time shooting his spend onto Giles’s chest. Spike’s interior muscles clenched and loosened and clenched again, and Spike howled and writhed within the confines of Giles’s grip, and Giles came, too, hard, so hard his hips bucked up even under Spike’s weight and his head bashed against the wall.

“Good boy,” he murmured once again, this time into the skin over Spike’s chest. Spike slumped against him bonelessly.

Neither of them had the energy to clean up, just then. Spike slowly disengaged himself and they both scooted down under the sheets. Spike nestled himself almost on top of Giles, his head against Giles’s shoulder so that his hair tickled Giles’s chin a bit, his arm flung over Giles’s waist. Giles let his hands settle near Spike’s hips. Spike wiggled a bit until Giles patted his arse impatiently, and then Spike sighed happily and fell asleep.

[Part Four](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/110798.html) 


	4.  The Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  Post-series and ignoring the comics. Giles runs into Spike unexpectedly and learns a lesson. 

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[spike/giles](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike/giles), [the lesson](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/the%20lesson)  
  
---|---  
  
_ **The Lesson, part 4 of 4** _

**Title: **The Lesson   
**Part: 4** of 4    
**Pairing:** Spike/Giles   
**Rating:** NC-17   
**Disclaimer: **I'm not Joss   
**Warnings:**  angst, slash   
**Summary:** Post-series and ignoring the comics. Giles runs into Spike unexpectedly and learns a lesson.    
**AN: **In celebration of [Giles Week](http://dontgetanyolder.livejournal.com/194420.html) and also using one of January's [](http://community.livejournal.com/nekid_spike/profile)[**nekid_spike**](http://community.livejournal.com/nekid_spike/)  prompts, prostitution. I'll post all 4 parts now.

**Part Four**

_Viareggio, Italy_

_2028_

 

“The National Health may be willing to pay for another new knee, Rupert, but I am _not_ going to nurse you again.”

Giles rolled his eyes. “I am perfectly capable of taking on a few Pa’negi demons, Spike. I’m not completely decrepit yet.”

Spike crossed his arms over his chest. “We’re on holiday. If you try to go after those  demons I’m going to tie you to the bed.”

Giles tried to look stern. “Cheeky.” He actually had no intention of fighting the Pa’negi, who weren’t even particularly lethal as demons went. But he rather liked it when Spike fussed over him like this, and then Spike would get defiant and Giles would have to punish him, and they both always enjoyed that.

Spike stepped in closer, until their bodies were touching, and purred in Giles’s ear. “You could tie me instead, if you like.”

After all these years, and at his age, Giles didn’t have to swallow any little blue pills to get hard. All it took was Spike’s voice, Spike’s touch, the mental image of Spike’s muscles straining beneath him. Which Spike knew well enough, and he chuckled against Giles’s neck. “P’raps after you untie me, we could go to that little seafood place you like so well and scandalize people with a nice public snogging.”

“Mmm,” Giles said, pretending he needed persuading. He and Spike both enjoyed the way their apparent age difference perturbed strangers, when in fact Giles was still less than half Spike’s age.

“And we’ll need to do some shopping, won’t we? That hungry lot won’t survive on tea and whiskey and biscuits, love.”

“Or on blood,” Giles agreed. In two days, Xander and his wife would be arriving at the villa with their older son and his wife and their five-year old, who’d the previous year insisted on having all her bedtime stories read to her by Spike in his vampire face. Willow and her wife would be there soon, too, and Dawn and her two children. Between them they’d eat like a small army.

“All right,” Giles said with feigned resignation. “You can text the Council and have them send someone for the Pa’negi. But I think you’ve earned a spanking for your shockingly rude threats.”

“I expect so,” Spike replied happily, folding his arms around Giles’s middle. Giles embraced him back.

“It’s a good job you rescued me, Watcher,” Spike murmured. “Or who would watch over you?”

Giles kissed Spike’s hair. “You’re the most important thing I ever saved.”

Giles was fairly sure that somewhere, up in the heavens, perhaps, Archie Lassiter was nodding in satisfaction at a lesson finally learned.

 

_\---fin---_

 


End file.
